A Tale of Two Skulls
by grannysknitting
Summary: Sherlock meets Red Bull and learns something new about John.


**A Tale of Two Skulls**

**AN - preslash if you follow the one shot series.**

John shut the front door behind him, juggling the smallish box carefully from one hand to the other as he coped with the slightly sticky lock and the cold wind trying to push the damn thing open again. The air had a real bite to it at the moment, which meant he'd probably be dealing with a round of sniffles and ear aches on Monday at the clinic. He'd left Sherlock in the flat this morning with the vague promise that he'd be back later and toddled off towards the park, on the off chance that his flatmate come spouse would think he was meeting someone once he got there.

Actually, he was collecting Sherlock's birthday present. Ever since Sherlock had given him a skull as a wedding ring, John had noticed that his room was being invaded more often as Sherlock came upstairs to talk to it. It only happened when John wasn't around, but it was still quite apparent to the doctor that Sherlock missed his 'old friend'. He'd even walked in early one morning to find Sherlock cuddled up on the couch with it, though his flatmate had returned the 'wedding ring' by the time John had finished making them both tea and toast.

Therefore, John had decided that Sherlock would get a replacement skull for his birthday. After the fuss about 'I don't do Christmas, John', he knew better than to try it out as a Christmas present: the thin genius hadn't mentioned birthdays however, so John was going with that. Lestrade had stored the gift at his house - John had wisely refrained from mentioning the contents and Lestrade had been very clear that he wasn't going to ask and _didn't_ want to know - which preserved the gift from prying eyes and the curious investigations of the man-child that John sometimes lived with.

He wasn't entirely sure what he'd see when he opened the door - Sherlock had been _bored_ when John left this morning, then texted him in a flurry at eleven with questions that had seemed totally unconnected - but he was hoping that Sherlock was asleep or at least resting. John's friend had the oddest sleep pattern of anyone he'd ever met, and he'd taken to keeping tabs on it out of sheer self defence. Sherlock should have been winding down into one of the rare sleep periods that he dropped into as if someone had drugged him, and would be cranky and restless in the lead up to that. Unfortunately, that wasn't what John walked into.

Sherlock was flitting about like a humming bird on speed, a state that always had John checking for drugs around the flat. He always felt guilty afterwards, but that didn't stop him from listening to that niggling little voice that sounded like Lestrade.

"Sherlock?" John asked mildly, which was quite a feat really, "What's going on?"

"I needed to complete some experiments, John, so I did some research on stimulants that weren't illegal and I came across this wonderful product called Red Bull," Sherlock replied, bouncing on his toes like he was about to serve a tennis ball, "Have you ever tried it?"

"Not really," John muttered, looking around for the cans, "I had a sip of someone else's but didn't like the taste."

Sherlock had evidently been out, because there was a six pack of the cans abandoned on the coffee table. Five of them had been opened. John had only been gone for six hours.

"One an hour, Sherlock, really?" he groaned and then reared back when Sherlock pounced on him, apparently trying to help him out of his coat and scarf. John tossed the box onto the couch and made himself as limp as possible, the better to avoid having his arms torn off in Sherlock's enthusiasm.

"You deduced!" Sherlock sounded as delighted as parents watching a child take its first steps, "That was _clever_."

John didn't bother to argue, knowing from the Sugar Incident that when Sherlock was hyperactive it was best to let the little things slide and save your energy for the bigger arguments: like why it was not a good time to try and cross Inner London using only rooftops in the middle of a heavy rain storm.

"What's in the box?" Sherlock demanded next and John grinned, hoping to gain at least thirty seconds of peace from the whirlwind that was now Sherlock. They'd been through this before - when Sherlock was _this_ tired it was best to let him run down and then tuck him into bed.

"It's your birthday present," John informed him, "And before you start, note the lack of birthday wrapping, pointy hats and cake."

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth for a moment, then patted John on both shoulders and ruffled his hair.

"Good boy!" the words were not meant to be insulting, but that didn't stop John from aiming a scowl at Sherlock's back as he leapt for the box and held it up, spinning it in his hands for a 360 degree look. He took all of three seconds to think and then dropped the box back on the couch and bounced back to John's side, hugging him with more enthusiasm than care before leaping up the stairs, presumably to fetch John's wedding ring and introduce them.

John rubbed his hand on the back of his head, where it had impacted on the door frame, before scooping up the empty cans along with the one that was still full. His flatmate whirled into the front room and began unearthing his present as John tipped the full one out into the sink, tossed the cans and began the washing up. Sherlock was on the couch with both skulls, apparently involved in a staring competition with them. John shook his head - at least it would keep the other man quiet for a while.

He made himself a cup of tea and ran an eye over the chemicals and apparatus on the kitchen table.

"So, what do you think?" Sherlock pounced into the room, apparently disqualified from the contest, leaving both skulls staring at each other, "I had to invent two new reagents and it was very tricky, but I think I might even get another paper out of it!"

"Very impressive," John nodded, which was apparently code for 'tell me about it in excruciating detail'. Sherlock launched into his explanation and John nodded as appropriate, looking at the circles under his flat mates eyes with concern. When he crashed, he'd crash hard, maybe even sleep for a whole day.

"Another paper for Mycroft's collection, then," John said when Sherlock finished. There was a row of books on their bookcase that was dedicated entirely to Sherlock's chemical and forensic publications. Mycroft sent the bound collection once a year to the flat - always on January the first, according to Sherlock's somewhat sulky mutters. Sherlock nodded vaguely as John rinsed his tea cup in the washing up water and then drained the bowl. Once he was done a thin hand wrapped itself around his wrist and dragged him back into the front room.

"We need to name them," Sherlock announced, "We can't just call them skull."

"Ok," John murmured agreeably, "Well, the one you gave me is a Caucasian male, as is the one I gave you, though yours is younger."

"No, no - you can't just go by that. We can't call them older and younger - that would be rude!" Sherlock whispered, as if the skulls would hear them and be offended, "Don't be obvious, John."

"Maybe we should go by their identifying features, then," John replied, "Yours had quite defined cheekbones when he was alive, we could call him cheeky. Mine used to be a boxer..."

"You didn't tell me you knew them!" Sherlock exclaimed, actually seeming quite shocked, "John, are you collecting medical exemplars from among your _acquaintances_?"

"No!" John spluttered, "I'm going from the tissue markers and remodelling! I assumed you'd done a facial reconstruction on them too."

Sherlock stared at him for three whole minutes, his eyes flitting over John's face as if trying to memorise him, or discover the vital clue that would let him finally understand the army veteran. John stood still and let him, because that was easier than irritating the man by moving away and dealing with him sulking while he was hyper. He also avoided pointing out that Sherlock had owned the one masquerading as a wedding ring before John had come along. Sherlock would have no patience for anyone else's logic while in this state.

"John, are you one of the few people who can look at a skull and see its _face_?" Sherlock breathed. John nodded - it had been unnerving at first, but there was something about the combination of medical knowledge and his own imagination that allowed him to re-dress the skulls he saw in flesh and blood. His thoughts were derailed when Sherlock hugged him roughly again; apparently deciding that he needed one. John hugged back, mainly to encourage Sherlock to let go and then raised an eyebrow at his fast wilting flatmate.

"We still need a name," Sherlock whirled away to pace the floor, running his hands through already wild hair, "Two names in fact. And we're _not_ naming them after _anyone_ we know!"

The last statement was delivered with such vigour that John suspected an old childhood argument was at the root of it.

"Something literary, then," John suggested equably, ignoring the echoes still rattling around the flat. Sherlock frowned for a moment and then squinted at him suspiciously.

"If the next word out of your mouth is Yorik, then I shall have to give serious consideration to a divorce," he announced. John laughed - Shakespeare had not been his intention at all - and shook his head.

"I was thinking of famous literary _pairs_ Sherlock. Yorik was the only skull in that play. Although if you want to go topical, we could use Borgin and Burke, the famous body snatchers," he was not at all surprised that Sherlock rolled his eyes and whirled back into his pacing with a muttered _obvious_.

John settled into his armchair and watched his flatmate pace. Sherlock was slowing down and becoming less graceful, which meant that the crash was immanent. He was muttering various paired names under his breath at a rate that made them almost indistinguishable. John was impressed by his apparent knowledge, or would have been if he hadn't known that Sherlock was classically trained.

"Ah HA!" he shouted after a good forty minutes, "John, this is Tweedledee," and he tossed John's wedding ring to him, "And _this_ is Tweedledum!"

And he promptly collapsed onto the couch, the newly christened Tweedledum clasped to his chest, out like a light.

John sighed and got up to put Tweedledee away. He'd need both hands to drag Sherlock to his bed.

END

Disclaimer - characters and setting as depicted in the BBC series not mine. Neither is Red Bull. No money being made. Plot is mine.


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